Atlas Ryland had faced lords, nobles, warlords, conmen, slavers, and bureaucrats armed with nothing but his wit and a dangerously sharp tongue. But right now, at this precise moment, he was experiencing something far worse than all of them combined.
A needle at his neck.
His body remained still, but his mind was a lightning storm of deductions, processing everything in less than ten seconds.
First: Hands.
Soft, yet firm. Calluses—subtle, precise. The kind formed by wielding weapons, not scrubbing floors.
Grip? Perfectly measured. No wasted tension. She wasn't restraining him; she was controlling him.
The needles? Balanced. Unshaken. This was someone who didn't just handle weapons—she mastered them.
'She's not a servant. She's a warrior who could gut me before I even think of screaming.'
Second: Breath.
Silent. Controlled. Not a hint of exertion. Qi discipline most likely.
No fluctuation, no tell-tale heartbeat spike. No anger, no hesitation.
'This isn't instinct. This is refined, ruthless training.'
Third: Chest.
Atlas, as a dedicated observer, took stock of the proportions with professional curiosity.
Tightly wrapped beneath martial robes but shape and size was noticeable. Maybe like a peach. No shift, no movement—she wasn't just controlling her breath. She was controlling her body.
'Qi suppression. The same kind used by grandmasters.'
Atlas internally sighed. 'Fantastic. I'm pinned by a legend-in-the-making.'
Fourth: Posture & Strength.
Feet planted with intent. Even weight distribution—defensive and offensive in equal measure.
No slouch, no wavering.
The stance? The exact same as Daokan.
Atlas' stomach dropped slightly. 'Oh. Oh no. She's someone important.'
Fifth: The Needle.
Not poisoned. If it were, he'd smell the chemicals.
Not shaking. If it were meant to kill, it would've already punctured skin.
'This isn't a threat. It's a statement. I am in her mercy.'
Atlas sighed dramatically, finally speaking. "Not that I don't enjoy a woman's hands on me, but usually I prefer dinner first."
A sharp exhale came from infront of him—Meyu. Atlas, ever attuned to his surroundings, didn't need to look to know she had stiffened. A fraction too long before she folded her arms, eyes narrowing.
Oh? Interesting.
She masked it quickly, but not quickly enough. The barely audible click of her tongue, the shift in weight from one foot to another—Meyu wasn't pleased. Not furious, not jealous in the overt sense, but there was something. A subtle irritation, the kind a person had when they didn't understand why they were irritated.
Atlas almost smirked. Almost.
No response. Unshaken.
Sixth: Tone of Voice.
When she finally spoke, it was calm, deliberate, and practiced.
"You talk too much."
No venom, no emotion. Just control.
Atlas' brain clicked into place like a puzzle snapping shut.
Daughter of Daokan. Has to be
It wasn't a guess. It is the only logical answer.
His smirk returned. "You don't like my voice? Tragic. Women usually fall for it."
Her grip tightened.
Got her.
Seventh: Instinctive Response.
When I spoke, her fingers twitched. Just slightly.
Unconscious reaction. Meaning not completely emotionless.
Meaning vulnerable to manipulation.
Atlas leaned ever so slightly into the needle, feeling her hand react again—adjusting before he could even fully shift.
Perfect reaction speed. She's as fast as top cultivators, but she's unknown to the world. That means she's a hidden ace.
And all of this? Less than thirty seconds.
Most of that time was wasted waiting for her to speak. The deductions? They had already been completed within the first fifteen.
His grin deepened, slow and deliberate, stretching with devilish amusement. It was the kind of grin that belonged to a man who had just solved the puzzle before anyone even realized there was one. A grin eerily reminiscent of a trickster who had already won the game.
Layla and Master Daokan both watched this unfold, their expressions unreadable—until their inner thoughts, in perfect sync, betrayed them.
I want to punch this guy.
"Tell me" he murmured, voice silk-soft and cunning
"Are you the strong, silent type because it's your style? Or because it's expected of you?"
A fraction of a second. A tiny flicker of her fingers.
Atlas exhaled through his nose, as if bored, and leaned back slightly, his eyes sweeping across the room before locking onto Meilin and Daokan.
"Alright, let's make this easy for everyone."
He raised a single finger, twirling it lazily.
"She's not a servant. That much is obvious. Hands too refined, yet too calloused in all the right places. That means she's trained—trained well. Probably from birth."
His eyes flicked toward the needle still pressed against his neck, and he smirked.
"Breath control? Impeccable. Not just calm—controlled. No wasted energy, no unnecessary movements. That's high-level Qi suppression. You don't learn that from carrying trays of tea and scrubbing floors."
Atlas tapped his forehead. "Posture's the giveaway, though. Balanced. Offensive stance, but weight distributed for absolute control. The only other person that could move like that? A Grandmaster threatening me and unless you've got an entire army of that's tucked away in the sea of the servants, you would be able to conquer the world but this with all the other reason I said earlier makes her special."
His grin widened as he gestured toward Daokan.
"Special, and conveniently very close to you. That's the kicker, isn't it? You don't let just anyone train at that level. That's blood. That's legacy. That's—"
He tilted his head dramatically, ignoring the increased pressure on the needle as if it were no more than a mosquito bite.
"Master Daokan's own daughter."
Silence.
Daokan's expression remained unreadable, but the tension in the air said enough. Layla blinked, then scowled. Jiang furrowed his brows, looking between Atlas and Daokan as if trying to find the lie. Bao outright snorted, shaking his head. Even Meyu—who had seen Atlas work miracles before—crossed her arms and whispered to Yuxe
"No way. He's bluffing."
Layla exhaled sharply again, rubbing her forehead.
I swear to the heavens, this man was put on this earth just to be insufferable.
Even she found herself doubting him.
Could he really have deduced all that in seconds? No, it wasn't possible… was it?
Daokan remained eerily still, but his eyes had narrowed just slightly. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, a silent cadence of suppressed thought. And the woman with the needle? Still unmoving. Still unreadable. But Atlas knew. He saw it—the tiniest, almost imperceptible flicker in her stance.
Atlas chuckled. "Oh, you're good. Really good. But see, the thing about being me is… I only need one reaction. And I already got it, from both father and daughter I might add."
He let his grin widen, letting it morph into something downright wicked. Then, without breaking eye contact with Daokan, he exhaled dramatically.
"And you, Master Daokan... that fury earlier? That wasn't just because of the child slave. No, that anger runs deeper."
Daokan's fingers halted mid-tap.
Atlas tilted his head. "It's personal, isn't it? That unshakable fury when I mentioned the girl's fate? That's not righteous indignation. That's pain. Because you once almost lost someone the same way. Someone very close to you. Someone—"
The needle sank into his skin just enough to draw a bead of blood.
Atlas, despite himself, grinned even wider. His voice dropped to a near whisper, eyes glinting like a devil who had just won his game.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
The masseuse's grip tightened, her fingers pressing into his skin with barely concealed irritation.
"You are infuriating" she hissed, finally breaking her silence. The weight of her frustration bore down on him, but he only chuckled.
Master Daokan exhaled slowly, his eyes closing for a brief moment as if contemplating whether it was worth the effort to deny it. When he opened them again, his gaze was sharp and unwavering.
"Yes" he said at last.
"She is my daughter."
The room froze.
Jiang's mouth slightly parted, his usually impassive face betraying a flicker of shock. Bao let out an incredulous huff, shaking his head. Meyu stared, blinking in disbelief. Even Layla, who had been prepared for some level of absurdity, felt her mind momentarily stall.
He was right!?
Layla exhaled, her fingers instinctively rubbing her temples, realising that Atlas was dangerous.
More dangerous than any rulers, armies, warrior I have ever faced.
Not because he was the strongest. Not because he wielded some ancient technique. No, his power lay in his ability to see through people, to unravel their very being with nothing but words and intuition. He was a weapon disguised as a man, cutting deeper than any blade ever could.
If he had been in my past life—when I wore the crown...
She thought as she remember ruling from the gilded throne, played the great game of politics—what would she have done?
If I had encountered him not as a merchant, but as a rival noble, an enemy warlord, or even a mere advisor with nothing but ambition in his veins? Would I have been able to stop him?
Her mind ran the scenarios.
If he had commanded even a minor town, would I have been able to crush him? No, he would have thrived, manipulating every lord and general under her rule. If he had been among her courtiers, I would never have been able to fully trust him—because he saw too much.
And if he had been an enemy?
Layla felt a chill crawl down her spine.
She had fought wars before, but against men of brute strength, against warriors whose rage could be countered with calculation. If Atlas had led an army against her in her past life, she wasn't sure she would have won. No, worse—she wasn't sure she would have even seen him coming.
It wasn't about brute strength, nor was it about power in the conventional sense. No, what made Atlas terrifying was his ability to break them down, piece by piece, and rearrange them into something more useful for his game.
The masseuse—no, Daokan's daughter—released Atlas, her movements controlled, but her annoyance was clear. With a sharp motion, she reached up and pulled away the thin veil covering her face, revealing sharp, refined features that bore a striking resemblance to Master Daokan.
"I am Shen Xue of the Daokan lineage," she stated, her voice crisp, proud, and laced with residual irritation.
"And you, merchant, are far too perceptive for your own good."